


Does the Wolf Apologize

by captainellie



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves, Alternate Universe - Witches, Biting, Corn Mazes, F/F, Halloween Costumes, Kinks, Labyrinths and Mazes, Monster Girl, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Storms, ToT: Monster Mash, Trick or Treat: Trick, Vaginal Fisting, Werewolves, Witches, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 09:02:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16302158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainellie/pseuds/captainellie
Summary: “You could be little red riding hood,” Veronica tells Betty.Will you be the big bad wolf?That’s what she hopes Betty says. Or wishes she would. Veronica can picture it now, little wolf ears in her dark hair and dark red lips and the bruise of her lipstick against Betty’s throat.





	Does the Wolf Apologize

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KeenWolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeenWolf/gifts).



“The corn maze is the best!” Betty’s ponytail bobs as she bounces down the hall, books clasped to her chest. She spins back to beam at Veronica, and Veronica feels a familiar warmth flood through her. Betty’s ridiculous, bright and shiny, and wonderful.

She is the best part of this new world, of the second chance Veronica is tearing for herself out of her father's folly and their family's fear, and the worst as well. She brings out the best in Veronica, and the worst, a whiplash of good and bad, naughty and nice.

Veronica touches her hand, skin to skin, and loses herself in the crash of it all.

 

 

“You could be little red riding hood,” Veronica tells Betty. They’re sitting in Betty’s bedroom, Betty at her vanity, Veronica stretched out across the bed, on her stomach, chin in one hand. Betty’s squinting at herself, a different shade of eyeshadow on each eyelid. One is pale, with the slightest hint of gold when the light catches it. The other is only a breath darker, but it deepens Betty’s eyes. Her lashes are long and black, her lips are pink with sticky gloss, and her cheeks are flushed.

 _Will you be the big bad wolf?_ That’s what she hopes Betty says. Or wishes she would. Veronica can picture it now, little wolf ears in her dark hair and dark red lips and the bruise of her lipstick against Betty’s throat.

“I bet you have the perfect cloak.” Betty laughs, high and bright, and Veronica smiles at her in the mirror.

“You know it.” She does, too, and wants to hold it for Betty to step into, wants to let her fingers linger against Betty's throat as she finishes the clasp. Wants a piece of her to cling to Betty, to curl around her body, to press close to her skin.

Betty turns away from the mirror. Little wisps of hair have broken free of her sharp, perfect ponytail, and she smooths them back behind her ears. “I’ll fill a basket with goodies,” she says, and smiles. Veronica doesn’t recognize that smile. Can’t read the expression on her face.

Then, in an instant, Betty is sunny again, sweet and bright.

 

 

“Wear your cloak,” Betty whispers, leaning in close. They're in the locker room changing before practice. “You be little red.” She laughs, and it is lower than normal, and promising. “I'm more of a big bad wolf myself.”

_Will you chase me down and swallow me whole?_

But Veronica doesn't ask, and Betty says nothing more.

 

 

Betty grabs her hand and drags her into the corn maze. Not that she has to try too hard to get Veronica to follow her. Where Betty goes, Veronica goes, too, not because she is in Betty’s shadow, not because she is Betty’s shadow. She wants to be where Betty is.

Veronica chooses where she goes, and she chooses Betty every time.

The moment they step into the tall green stalks, thunder rumbles in the distance. The storm held off all afternoon, but it’s dark now, the coming night, but heavy clouds, too, and the quick flash of lighting in the distance, followed by another roll of thunder.

“If we stay out here much longer, we’ll get drenched,” Veronica says, eyeing the storm.

Lightning flashes again.

“One Mississippi,” Betty counts, squeezing Veronica’s hand tight. “Two Mississippi.” She makes it to five Mississippi before they hear the thunder. “It’s getting closer,” she says, “but we still have time.”

Veronica eyes the clouds, but when Betty takes her hand and pulls her deeper into the maze, she doesn’t put up a fuss. Betty’s hand is cold, her fingers soft, and she holds tight; Veronica squeezes back and focuses on not stepping wrong. The dirt is still soft from the last rain, and though hay has been spread across the path, there are patches where the ground is sloppy with mud.

The corn stalks are only three or four inches above their heads, but they tilt in from each side, heavy with water. It makes Veronica feel like the sides are pressing in on her. It’s just corn, she reminds herself. She could push through it and walk straight out of the maze if she needed to.

Betty leads her deep through the corn, deep into the maze. The sky grows darker with each step. With each beat of Veronica’s heart, her pulse loud in her ears. The maze twists and turns, and they go along with it. Betty’s hair is the brightest thing around them, a gold beacon in the falling night and the building storm.

Cool fingers slip away from hers. Betty turns back, ponytail bouncing, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, and then darts around the corner, into another part of the maze. Veronica’s hand opens and closes, the emptiness a strange weight against her palm.

“Betty,” she calls. Her voice breaks. The air is thick in her throat, in her lungs, humid. There’s no rain yet, but it is coming. She can feel it, electricity running across her bare skin. She coughs, tries again. Her voice is stronger this time. “Where’d you go?”

Laughter lilts back toward her and wind brushes across her cheek, stirs her hair.

Veronica turns the corner. A long stretch of maze lies before her, no exit on either side until, at the far end, it cuts hard to the left. There’s no sign of Betty. She walks the length of it; as she gets closer to the end, her footsteps speed up. She doesn’t mean to do it, there’s no reason to be afraid. It’s just a corn maze at a town party. Betty’s in front of her, and behind her will be other people, even though she can’t hear them.

But her skin prickles along the back of her neck, down her spine. It feels like someone’s watching her, like something’s waiting for her just around the corner. Something dangerous or terrible or exciting. The threat of it -- the promise -- feels real enough she hesitates a moment before turning the corner, certain that something is standing there, just far enough back that she can’t see any part of it.

Veronica takes a deep breath. Steps around the corner. Finds more maze, and long shadows, and nothing else.

She laughs a little, high and shaky, at herself.

“Come on, Veronica.” Becky’s voice is close, and amused. “You’re taking forever to find me.”

“Oh, are we playing hide and seek?” Veronica asks. She looks around, but there’s no sign of Betty or anyone else standing at the places new paths cut away from this one. “What do I get when I win?”

More laughter, light and airy, and a rustle from the corn stalks to the right. Veronica heads down that part of the maze. It’s more complicated here, twists and turns, and she moves faster and faster. Lightning flashes, and then thunder right after. The storm is close.

The storm is on them, rain sputtering down. It dampens her hair, splashes cool against her temples and cheeks. She tips her face back into it, eyes closed. It’ll chill her through soon enough, but for a moment it is fresh and new.

Fingers circle her wrist. Her head drops, her eyes snap open, and she’s dragged into the corn stalks. They’re heavy against her, hard to push through, and they close behind her almost like she’d never been there in the first place.

Lightning flashes. Betty’s hair is bright in front of her, and Betty’s wide smile, and those big, big eyes. Her grip around Veronica’s wrist is tight, nails digging in. She jerks Veronica forward; Betty’s warmer than the rain and the breeze whipping into a wind, boiling hot against her.

Betty nudges her red cloak open and dips her face to Veronica’s throat. She breathes in deep. Her hair is damp against Veronica’s chin, her mouth damp and warm against Veronica’s bare skin. She kisses her way along Veronica’s throat, little biting kisses that send flashes of pain and heat straight through her.

“You smell good,” Betty murmurs against her skin. She drops Veronica’s wrist, brings her hands up and grips Veronica’s arms tight, above her elbows.

Veronica opens her mouth to say something, but all that comes out is a strangled cry. She cups her hands against Betty’s forearms. There’s no strength to her grip. She feels weak all over. Only Betty’s body against her keeps Veronica on her feet.

“Betty,” she manages at last, and then Betty’s kissing her, lips and teeth and tongue. Veronica moans into her mouth. Betty’s heat melts her, and she sinks into the embrace.

They kiss like that for hours, minutes, weeks. Veronica’s never been this drunk on kisses before, but there’s something about Betty’s heat and the slick press of her mouth and the sharp bite of her teeth against Veronica’s lips. Each jolt makes her squirm, makes heat sink through her, gathering between her legs.

They kiss until the rain pours down around them, soaking Veronica through. Betty’s clothes are wet, too, and when Veronica tips her head back, panting for breath, she expects to see Betty’s skin steaming from the heat.

Betty’s gray wolf ears are askew, and she has Veronica’s lipstick smeared across her mouth, a stain of deep, dark red.

When she smiles, her teeth look very white against it, and very sharp.

“You smell good,” she says again, and with no further ado, she sinks to her knees and presses her face against Veronica’s stomach. Veronica gasps, and then again when Betty puts her hands on Veronica’s ass, beneath her skirt, holding her still. “I could eat you up.”

From above, her smile is even more dangerous, her eyes too large for her face.

Veronica touches her fingers to Betty’s hair.

Betty dips her head under Veronica’s skirt, hands and teeth making fast work of her underwear. It’s caught halfway down her thighs when Betty licks into her, tongue going straight to her clit, nails digging into her ass.

Veronica bites into her own wrist to quiet her shriek.

Her legs tremble, but Betty holds her up, steady, much stronger than she appears. She takes Veronica’s weight with ease, nearly lifts her off the ground, uses her shoulders to nudge Veronica’s legs farther apart. She sets her teeth to Veronica, biting at her lips, shaved clean, and Veronica jerks between her hands and her mouth.

“You taste good,” or at least that’s what she thinks Betty says, but it’s muffled by Veronica’s skirt. She can feel Betty’s words vibrate against her cunt, and it makes her cry out again, makes her bite hard into her wrist, until she draws blood.

One finger pushes into her, then a second without pause, and a third, too much too soon. The stretch burns, and her body nearly shakes apart from it. Betty’s teeth close on the inside of Veronica’s thigh at the same time as she pushes in a fourth finger. Veronica cries out into her wrist, and clenches up, and comes.

Somehow, Betty knows the moment Veronica’s legs are strong enough to hold her, because she stops holding Veronica up then, draws back from beneath her skirt. Her mouth is wet, her cheeks flushed. She licks her fingers clean, sucking each one between lips that are smeared with pink lip gloss and dark red lipstick and come.

Veronica blinks down at her. Betty’s on her knees, still, in the mud. Her hair is a mess, soaked and sticking to her cheeks. She looks beautiful, debauched and broken open, satisfied and smug.

“Betty,” she says, half breathless. “That was…”

Betty stares up at her, lips parted, mouth gently swollen. Her eyes flash bright, brighter, her teeth are big and sharp, her entire body trembles. Rainwater drips from the end of her nose. Veronica reaches for her, brushes her fingers against Betty’s cheeks.

Betty makes a wounded, animal noise, lunges to her feet, and throws herself into the corn. The stalks part and snap, leaving a broken path, and a fleeing girl, and Veronica standing in the rain, pulse pounding in her ears, cheeks hot, body slick with rainwater and sweat and desire.

 

 

Betty turns up at school in a pristine white blouse and crisp gray skirt, ponytail tight, lips and nails shades of pink, polished and perfect. She hasn’t answered a single text or call all weekend, and her house was dark and silent when Veronica went by. Archie says he hasn’t seen her. Jughead too. Ethel. Cheryl. None of them.

“Hey.” Veronica touches her hands together. If she was a lesser girl, she’d be twisting her fingers, but she’s been through worse than an awkward morning after (morning after morning after morning after). “Where’d you disappear to this weekend?”

A shadow flickers across her eyes, but she holds Veronica’s gaze. “Family things.”

Veronica raises one carefully sculpted eyebrow. “Family things,” she repeats.

Betty lifts her chin. The shadow is gone. Her smile is sweet, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Family things,” she says a third time. Three times make a spell. Veronica curls her fingers into her palms. Betty’s not a witch. She’s not. Veronica would know.

She would know.

“Did you have fun?” Veronica asks, syrup sweet.

“A delicious time.”

Veronica’s mouth opens, but for once she has no sharp words. No words at all.

“I don’t know what this is,” Kevin says, ducking around them, both eyebrows up, “but you’re blocking the hall, dear girls.”

Veronica laughs, and Betty does too. Her smile softens as she keeps looking at Veronica. “Come over after school?” she asks. She touches the back of Veronica’s hand almost too fast for it to register how it feels before it’s gone.

“Sure,” Veronica says. Her fingers drift to her mouth. She can still feel the bite of Betty’s teeth into her lower lip. Into her throat. Into the soft skin on the inside of her thigh. When she realizes what she’s doing, she forces her hand back to her side.

“Good,” Betty says. Her smile fades, but there’s a glimmer in her eyes. Amusement. Happiness. Something else entirely. Veronica can’t tell. Betty dips her head, takes a slow breath. “You smell good.” Her voice is low, her face very close to Veronica’s.

Veronica shivers.

“Oh, you do.” Kevin slouches against the wall of lockers behind them. “Is that a new perfume?”

Veronica’s cheeks are hot, her fingers cold. She wants to reach for Betty, warm her fingers against Betty’s skin -- warm her fingers between Betty’s legs -- but she presses her hands against her hips instead.

“Old favorite.” Veronica shakes back her hair, laughs a little. “Glad you like it.”

But her eyes are on Betty, and she’s waiting.

Waiting for that slow curl of a smile.

 

 

Betty’s room is filled with sunshine and light. The blinds are down, but mostly open. Archie’s not home. There’s no one to look in from next door. Betty’s parents aren’t home, either. There’s nothing to stop them from talking about anything at all, or doing anything at all, or more.

Betty perches on the end of the bed, ankles crossed, skirt neat across her thighs, hands cupped together. Veronica paces around the room, touching the make-up on her vanity, her dresser drawers, the soft edge of her bedding.

“I was doing family things,” Betty says, breaking the silence.

Veronica turns to her. “Family things,” she says, because they’re playing this out again. Three times the charm.

Betty laughs. “Family things,” she says, finishing it as if she knows exactly what Veronica’s doing. She doesn’t. She can’t. Veronica would know if Betty was a witch. She recognized Cheryl the moment she saw her, the crackle of magic beneath her skin nearly visible.

But maybe Betty knows, too, even if she’s not the same, even if she can’t see it.

There are a lot of things Veronica could say to that, a hundred questions about it on her tongue, because she has seen Betty with her parents, with her sister, and they are not a family to do things together.

Instead, she asks, “And what was Friday night?”

Betty catches her hand and draws her nearer. “Did I hurt you?” she asks and for the first time, when Veronica meets her eyes, Betty looks away.

There are bruises up and down Veronica’s thighs, spots around her throat that are still slightly warm, that she’s carefully covered with make-up and a bright scarf. She reaches for it now with her free hand, slips it loose. Lets it flutter from her fingers until it rests, gently, on the floor.

“Oh.” That one word is on a sigh. Betty lets go of Veronica, reaches up toward her throat, then drops her hand to her lap. “I’m sorry.”

Veronica still has questions, too many, but she can’t stand the slump of Betty’s shoulders, the downward slant of her mouth. She steps forward, forcing Betty’s legs apart just by stepping into her space, and bends until their lips nearly touch.

“I’m not. I liked it. I thought you were going to eat me alive.”

Betty sucks in a breath, stealing the oxygen from Veronica, and then they’re breathing together, kissing together, moaning together.

Veronica ends up straddling Betty’s lap, her skirt hiked up her thighs. When she has to pull back, gasping for air, she takes Betty’s hand and places it on one of the bruises she left. Betty presses her fingers into it, and there’s a slight sting. Veronica’s breath stutters. Betty pushes harder, puts her nails into it.

“God,” Veronica breathes. She’s wet, and aching, and she wants more of that sharp pain.

“I could have eaten you alive,” Betty says. She holds tight to Veronica’s thighs. “I could have hurt you.”

“I would like it.” Veronica’s voice is steady, even though she’s shaking with desire, already, clit throbbing, already, pulse up, already. “I want it.”

“Not like that.” Betty lifts Veronica, so strong, and turns them, slamming Veronica down onto the bed. She slides her hands up Veronica’s thighs, hooks her fingers into Veronica’s panties, tugs them down her legs. “Really hurt you.”

Veronica spreads her legs apart, pulls up her skirt. Shows off her bruises.

“I want it,” she says.

Betty settles between her legs. “I shouldn’t have gone out that night,” she says. “I could have torn you open.” She touches her hands to Veronica’s thighs, slides them up until her thumbs brush Veronica’s lips, spreads them open. “Put my teeth on you and _chewed_.”

“Please.”

Three fingers, no warning. Veronica’s wet and needy, but not enough for that. She fists the bedding, body jerking. It burns as she stretches, and she wants to tell Betty to stop. Right now, she’s certain Betty would. Friday night, not so much. Five minutes from now, Veronica has no idea.

But she wants this more than she wants it to stop.

“You don’t know what I am,” Betty says. Adds a fourth finger. Thrusts them in and out, hard. It burns, and Veronica cries out. There are marks on her wrist from where she savaged it to hold her shouts in that night. She doesn’t have to be quiet now. “How monstrous I can be.”

“I know you,” Veronica says, and she does. She’s seen to the dark, twisted center of Betty Cooper, and the sunny surface, and everything in between. There is something hungry inside Betty, something that feeds on the anger she pushes down, down, down inside. “I’m not afraid.”

Betty leans over her, heavier than she should be, stronger than she should be. She holds Veronica down, holds her in place, holds her open. “You should be.” She pulls out her fingers then pushes them back inside, inexorably slow. “You should be terrified. I could rip out your throat.”

There’s pressure, more than just the spread of her fingers. It’s too much, Veronica’s too tight, and god, oh god. “Betty,” she cries. It builds and builds, and Betty never lets up. Her knuckles stretch Veronica wide, too far, until she feels like she’s going to split apart.

And then Betty’s fist pushes all the way inside.

Veronica mewls and tries to thrust up, tries to take Betty deeper, but Betty puts her other hand on Veronica’s hip and holds her down.

“I could tear open your stomach, spill your insides. Bite into your thigh, split your femoral artery, bleed you out in a breath.”

Veronica squirms. Betty’s fist moves inside her, pushes deeper. Just when Veronica doesn’t think she could feel any fuller, Betty’s fingers spread, and Veronica screams.

“I’m a beast, Veronica.” Betty’s breathing hard, eyes wide, lips wet, cheeks flushed. “To your beauty. The big bad wolf to your red riding hood.”

“Please,” Veronica whines.

“Less than a minute,” Betty says. “That’s all I’d need to kill you. Less than the length of a kiss. Less than a breath.”

She ducks, body twisting in ways it shouldn’t, and presses her teeth to Veronica’s clit. Veronica’s scream tears through her throat, strangled before it escapes, and she comes, hard, clamped down on Betty’s fist, body thrusting and thrusting and thrusting.

Betty fucks her, pounds into her steady and fast, through one orgasm, and a second that makes her ache, and a third that actually hurts. Veronica begs her to stop then, voice breaking over it, and Betty fucks her still, talking over the obscene noise of her fist pushing in and pushing in and pushing in. Telling her all the things that she could do, all the ways she could take Veronica to pieces, bloody and broken.

Finally, Betty’s fist stills, and Veronica falls, limp, on the bed, body stretched open around Betty, still taking her to her wrist.

“I’m a monster,” Betty says, and her hand inside Veronica flexes. She’s strong enough to split Veronica apart from the inside.

Veronica reaches out, touches her fingers to Betty’s arm above where it disappears into her body. “I know,” she breathes, and clenches down.

 

 

They lie like that for hours, minutes, weeks.

Eventually, Betty pulls her hand out far more gentle than it went in. Her knuckles, too wide, hurt coming out, too, but then Veronica feels hollow where she was full. She wants to grab Betty, shove her back inside, all the way to her elbow, to her shoulder, until Veronica is full with her, overwhelmed with her, skewered through and through.

Betty licks her hand clean one slow sweep of her tongue at a time. Veronica watches her, and breathes, and tries not to cry at the emptiness inside her, or the way her heart is too full.

“What are you?” Betty asks.

Veronica puts her hand on Betty’s arm and lets a spark of magic flow through her fingertips, burn into Betty’s skin. There’s heat without fire, burning without flame, and then it’s gone.

Betty laughs, a little. “You don’t smell like the Blossoms,” she says.

“That ancient family grudge might be coloring your senses,” Veronica tells her, because it’s true, but mostly because it makes Betty laugh, golden and sweet in the sunlight, the only shadows left flickering in her eyes.

“You know what I am,” Betty says. Her voice is flat. It doesn’t sound like a question. Veronica thinks it is anyway.

“You are Betty Cooper,” she says. “You are my best friend. You are a monster inside.”

Betty looks down at where they touch. “And out,” she says. “This weekend. I could have changed Friday night, and killed you. I wouldn’t have meant it, not now.”

Veronica presses her entire palm against Betty’s skin and pushes more magic through her hand, letting it sink in this time, sharp-edged glass and a deep ache in the blood. “I am a monster inside, too.”

“I’m not a witch,” Betty says.

“I know.”

Betty looks to the window. The sun is starting to set. Sunsets are beautiful here, bruised violets and bloody orange. Veronica imagines it, and Betty standing in that light, and the great golden moon rising.

“I’ll tear you apart someday,” Betty says. “Eat you alive.”

“Every inch of me,” Veronica promises her. “Every drop of blood, every splinter of bone.”

  
  
November’s full moon rises. Veronica sits in the dark, in the cold, damp air, and tips her face to the sky. Her body throbs. She’s marked with bruises and scratches and bites not quite deep enough to draw blood.

In the distance, a wolf’s howl. 


End file.
